In the Long Run

Last October some new neighbors moved into the house next door. In a gesture of friendliness to the newcomers, I made them some Rice Krispies treats. (I went all out; I even pressed a candy corn garnish into each one.) I took them over one morning, and rang the doorbell. No answer. A couple of days later in the afternoon, I went back next door with my offering. Still no answer. I returned home with the goodies, and eventually ate them myself.

In December, in a festive spirit, I made pumpkin bread for some friends and neighbors, and included the still unknown neighbors on my list. Their loaf of bread sat on my kitchen counter, awaiting delivery until January. Then I ate it myself.

By then, I admitted that I was a bad neighbor. Sure, I waved cheerily to the husband in his yard when I drove by, and one day when I was outside picking up the mail, I sweetly asked one daughter what her name was as she rode by on her bike. My husband even told another daughter to use the basketball goal on our driveway any time she wanted. But several times when I saw the family out in their yard, or garage, I hurried on into my own house or garage and quickly closed the door. There will be more opportunities for introductions when the weather is warmer, I rationalized to myself. I’ll get acquainted with them in the spring.

At work a couple of days ago, a pleasant woman came to the front desk to sign up her daughters for summer camp. As I entered information into the computer, we talked congenially about the weather, and how the school year had flown by, and the fact that summer was almost here. I stopped mid-sentence in surprise, as I noted that the home address listed for her daughters was the house next to mine. “Are you my neighbor?!” I blurted out.

We quickly ascertained that she, indeed, did live next door to me, although neither of us would have recognized each other. I lamely apologized for not having met her earlier, and even spilled out the Rice Krispies treats and pumpkin bread stories. She laughed, and said, “Oh, you’re too cute!” She was very nice, and thanked me for letting her daughters use our basketball goal and the backyard swings. I gave her the utmost attention and courtesy as we finished the camp signups, and she left, leaving me feeling somewhat abashed.

I think I’ll pay my neighbors a visit over the holiday weekend. I’m thinking chocolate chip cookies this time, and I vow not to eat them myself.

Once again this last week, my internet connection was unpredictably and frustratingly cutting out on me. Just as I had attached several picture files to send to my son--no service. Right when I was making an important banking transfer—“page not found.” I couldn’t email back work-related documents to clients, shop online, or check my digital voicemail. So, during one of the brief periods when the internet connection was working, I hastily went to the IP website to get a technical support phone number. I noticed the site had an on-line support chat feature. Why not use it? I thought. At least it will be a live person.

JadeH (male or female…who knows) seemed polite and willing to help, when I typed out the problem in the chat window. He/She indicated that a technician might need to come to our home to check the cable, and it was exactly at that moment when I lost the connection again.

I was exasperated. Our digital landline phone also uses the internet cable, and was not working either. I dialed the helpline on my cell phone, but as I had predicted, I was asked to respond to an endless queue of pre-recorded prompts, instructing me to check connections and wires, then unplug the modem, router, and computer and powercycle them. The automated system featured a very sympathetic female recording who assured me that I could take as long as I wished to complete each of the tasks, before saying “Continue” to move on to the next step.

I continued, and continued, and continued. Although I had done all of these same things several times previously in the last few days, I did them again, hoping that I’d eventually complete the tech service gauntlet and get to talk to a real person. Amazingly enough, after the final step of rebooting the computer, the internet connection was working again. I was not naïve enough to think that the problem was permanently solved, so I indicated to my female recording that I still needed help. Finally, after about 15 minutes, I was able to talk to Steve, who, like JadeH and the pre-recorded prompter, seemed helpful and sympathetic. He agreed that there might be a problem with the cable and ordered a service visit for “sometime” Monday morning.

Since then I’ve struggled with my sketchy internet with a more positive attitude, knowing that there may be a solution for the problem soon. I’ve tried to post this blog four, oops, now it's five times, and I'm still sort of smiling. Make that a wan grimace. I eagerly await the cableguy. He can’t come soon enough.

This Mother’s Day is especially poignant for me, as I face my youngest child’s departure from home. My older children have already flown the nest, and now it is Big Guy’s turn to leave. Of course I will forever be my children’s mother, but I still feel a sense of loss.

I take a mental evaluation of nearly three decades of parenting. Did I teach my children the right things? Did I nurture them well?

A cross-stitch sampler hanging in my bedroom says:

There are only two lasting things we can give our children...one is roots, the other is wings.

It was instinctive for me, as with most mothers, to fiercely protect my children from physical harm and emotional insult, to strive to provide them with both the material and also the intangible necessities that make life enjoyable and satisfying, to instill in them a firm foundation of love and faith. I hope my efforts helped them develop not only roots and wings, but also the desire and confidence to use both of these gifts effectively and successfully with their own families.

To my little birds, M, L, D, and E: I think of you this Mother’s Day, and cherish each of you. It is an honor and a privilege to be your mother.

When I learned that my friend had come home from the hospital with her new baby, I called her and offered to take in some dinner that night at 6 PM.

Big Guy was leaving the next day on a trip, but generously volunteered to help me make lasagna. We chatted as he grated cheese, and I prepared the sauce. We made plans to watch “24” together later that night, provided that I had watched one episode on my own by then to catch up to the same point he was in the series. “Why don’t I watch it while the lasagna is baking?” I said, as we completed preparing the dinner. “Good idea,” he agreed, and turned on the oven for me. I slipped the pans into the oven, and I thought I checked the temperature to make sure it was correct. Then I hurried downstairs to the DVD where Jack Bauer and the rest of CTU were waiting to enthrall me.

Each episode of 24 usually contains these similar plots and dialogue: Jack races against the clock to prevent disaster to an unsuspecting public, he makes split-second decisions in life-threatening situations, he enlists the aid of reluctant co-workers in his renegade actions, and he inevitably mutters a frustrated and disgruntled “Fine!” when responding to directions or advice with which he does not agree. I already know the predicable plot interface, but still love to watch the final dressed-up product. This day was no different, and I was soon engrossed in the suspenseful drama.

Checking my watch when the episode was over, I realized I was nearly out of time. I was due at my friend’s house in less than...twenty-four minutes. I raced up the stairs and was horrified to smell burning cheese…. I gasped when I saw that the oven temperature was set at 450, one hundred degrees hotter than it should have been! The top of the lasagna was bubbling and blackish, and looked like hard molded plastic. I panicked, then calmed myself, and thought quickly. How could I salvage this meal? “Big Guy,” I yelled. “Please come here, and help me!” Big Guy appeared, and I tersely barked out orders. “Pull this burned layer off the top of the casserole while I make more sauce!” He looked doubtful.

“Fine!” I muttered, and suddenly, I became Jack Bauer, and I knew, confidently, that this mission would have a successful ending. “I’ll scrape the charred cheese, and you grate more mozzarella!” Lives are depending on us! I thought to myself, as I flew around the kitchen mixing sauce and heating leftover pasta.

“There’s not enough time,” Big Guy worried. “There has to be. We have no choice,” I encouraged. I left the bottom layers of edible lasagna intact, and carefully, but swiftly, added another layer of pasta, sauce and cheese. I shoved the whole pan under the oven broiler for four minutes while I heated French bread in the microwave oven. I grabbed a tossed salad and some dressing from the refrigerator, put the bread and lasagna in a cardboard box, turned off the oven, and dashed out the door, just under the wire, at two minutes to six.

Crisis averted. The free world, or rather, my friend and her family, never even suspected the ruin that had been moments from their door. Jack Bauer, the lessons you have taught me….